


look at the wonderful mess that we made.

by scaredykate



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, i don't have real tags, kaytie writes fic, real tags are for real fic writers, shannon i hope you're happy, you have grape toes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-08
Packaged: 2018-01-18 15:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1432792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scaredykate/pseuds/scaredykate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Harry has absolutely no sense of balance, he staggers backwards a bit, clutching at Nick to stay upright, and they sway together like that. But even then Harry refuses to stop kissing him, and Nick actually feels dizzy with the actuality of this. </p>
<p>Harry Styles is entirely sober and Harry Styles wants to kiss him. </p>
<p>(or: five times nick and harry hooked up and one time they didn't)</p>
            </blockquote>





	look at the wonderful mess that we made.

**Author's Note:**

> hi pals :) 
> 
> warnings for this fic include warm fuzzy feelings, a short handjob scene, and kissing. so much kissing.
> 
> own nothing, know nothing. just have a lot of emotions. also the title is from bastille's song 'flaws.'

1\. 

Nick is already on the verge of being shitty-weekend tipsy at his flat when bloody Harry Styles calls him on his mobile and asks to go out with him. Not—like that, necessarily. Just out, out. Out and about. Out on the town.  
“Been a rough week,” Harry says over the phone, by way of explanation, and Nick knows he’s got his puppy-dog eyes on, even though he can’t see him, and how is he supposed to say no to those unseen puppy-dog eyes anyway?  
“It’s Monday,” Nick replies, trying to make his hair stick back up the way it had managed all day up until now, when it’s really necessary for him to look halfway decent, like going out for drinks with an international pop star in a few.  
“It’s been a rough Monday?” Harry corrects himself.  
“Do musicians even have work weeks?”  
“Please, Grimmy?” he says imploringly, even though he probably already knows Nick is getting ready to go.  
“Alright, fine,” he says, waspish but grinning. “But you’re going to need to pick me up. I may or may not have had a few drinks already.”  
Harry fakes a gasp over the line. “You started without me? That’s absolute rubbish, Nick Grimshaw, and I’m ashamed of you. Call a cab.”  
“Where are we—?” Nick starts, but Harry’s already rung off, so he just frowns deliberately at his phone for a minute or two before calling for a taxi. “Bloody pop stars,” he mutters darkly before the phone picks up. 

Harry Styles is luckily quite easy to spot in a crowd—usually because he’s surrounded by girls and looks more than a little bit like a vaguely confused, vaguely disinterested dinosaur. Nick finds him within minutes, sitting down in the back of a club they’ve frequented a few times since their tumultuous friendship began. He’s wearing his black skinnies and a god-awful checkered shirt pulled over a loose t-shirt.  
“You’re a twat,” Nick says as a greeting, and immediately orders a round of shots from the nearest waiter.  
“Lovely to see you too,” Harry replies. He seems to be biting back a smile. Nick rolls his eyes but slides without much preamble onto the seat next to Harry. Harry stops trying not to smile.  
“Didn’t interrupt anything did I?” he says.  
Nick tries his best not to snort, but doesn’t really manage. “Who, me? I was halfway through my third terrible beer, so I should really be thanking you.”

Harry’s face does that thing where it scrunches up a bit in a smile, and Nick’s brain goes fuzzy around the edges. He shakes his head. He should be used to that look by now, after—well, shit, how long has he known Harry now? It’s been a while. He really should have grown accustomed to how fucking beautiful he is, but he never seems to be able to. He counts slowly back from ten and tries to remember “nineteen” and “pop star” and “Jesus Christ, Nick, he’s nineteen.”  
It’s easier when they’re just kicking it about their flats, watching crap telly or eating chips, not getting shit-faced, but not by much. By the time he finishes counting, the shots are there, and he downs the first one before the waiter even sets the tray on the table. Harry tips his head back to laugh at him, which is more than a little unfair. 

“Had a rough day then?” he asks through his laugh, then knocks one of the shots back himself. He squints one eye closed when the burn hits him, but it actually ends up being more attractive than anything else.  
Bloody Harry Styles and his bloody attractive face.  
“We’re here because of your day,” Nick snaps, not feeling up to explaining the utter tragedy of a day he’d had, let alone his whole pathetic weekend—the gossipy new intern, the heater being broken, the incompetent technician, the bratty guest. “Don’t change the subject.”  
Harry frowns a bit. “Just because my day’s been rubbish doesn’t mean I don’t want to know about yours, too.”  
Nick softens at that. Harry can be startlingly fragile sometimes.  
“There, there, love,” he says, and tugs good-naturedly at one of his curls. “Only teasing. Want to swap stories?”  
Harry swats his hand away but his fingers linger on his for a millisecond too long. All of a sudden, the club feels stifling.  
“Nah,” Harry smiles slowly. “Kind of want to just…drink.”  
“Alright. Let’s get proper pissed and prank call all our friends like we’re in secondary school,” he says decisively.  
Harry laughs at that, softer, and ducks his head briefly to Nick’s shoulder before he’s up and off to get more drinks. Nick hopes, vaguely, that he’ll just bring back a keg, or possibly a lake so he can drown himself in it. 

A very drunk Harry makes things incredibly difficult for him, meandering down the street in the general direction of his flat, somehow graceful and clumsy simultaneously. His hair is a right and proper mess now from all the times he’d run his fingers through it, and his eyes are all heavy-lidded and glassy. Nick is not in the right state of mind to be around him, to be honest, but he also has to somehow make sure the pop star gets back to his bloody flat alive and well, or else he’ll be mobbed by half a million murderous fans in a Tesco’s, probably.  
So, he trails after him, cursing his luck.  
Harry stops suddenly and Nick picks his pace up a little to catch him up.  
“What?” he says, a bit breathless, and Harry reaches over to grip at Nick’s sleeve a bit blindly.  
“Look at the sky,” he breathes out, as if it’s the most wondrous thing he’s ever seen. Nick looks obediently at the sky, then back at Harry, not really comprehending at all.  
It’s the same London sky he’s seen a million times before. But Harry just looks at him and blinks a few times, grinning. He’s seen him buzzed a few times, but never this far gone. It’s almost, well, it’s adorable. 

—In the end, it’s Harry who kisses him first, so it’s not really taking advantage as much as not actively stopping it from happening. That’s definitely a thing.  
He tells himself that if he had pushed Harry away when he saw him lean in, he’d have hurt him worse. He tells himself he’s not a miserable, lonely bastard grasping at any and all chances to be near the boy he fancies. 

Either way, he kisses back. Then, before he knows it, he’s got Harry’s hands tangled in his hair, Harry’s hips pressed to his hips, Harry’s thigh slipping its way between his legs. It’s an entirely different head rush: on top of the spectacular feeling of being drunk and careless after a terrible weekend, he’s actually kissing Harry Styles. That is an actual thing that is actually happening.  
When he finally manages to garner enough willpower to disentangle himself from Harry, his whole body is practically buzzing from the injustice of having to stop. Harry’s face sort of mirrors the way he feels, all crest-fallen and gutted, like something wonderful has been ripped out of his hands. It makes Nick feel a little, well—he feels sort of sick. Although that might be the alcohol.  
He tells himself emphatically that Harry is drunk, and that the helpless look he’s giving him now doesn’t mean anything, that none of this means anything at all.  
“Steady on, love,” he says with a cheeky little grin, though he can’t help but keep a gentle hold of Harry’s shoulders.  
“’m steady,” Harry mumbles out, but he’s looking disastrously at Nick’s lips, so Nick fumbles in his pocket for his mobile so he can call a cab. There’s no way in hell he’s walking home the rest of the way with him without taking advantage of him. Nineteen, Nick thinks, and grits his teeth. They’re both too bloody fragile and intoxicated for this, whatever this is. 

“Take me to yours,” Harry murmurs.  
“You have an interview tomorrow,” Nick says.  
Harry makes this helpless sort of noise and looks away, and Nick really, really wishes he knew what that meant.  
Harry actually looks a bit upset though, so Nick can’t help leaning forward a bit and kissing him very gently at the corner of his mouth. He means it to be calming and comforting, but he supposes it’s his own damn fault this time when Harry backs him up against the wall nearby and kisses him slowly, sliding his tongue languidly into his mouth. Both of his hands are delicate and gentle where they cup the sides of Nick’s face. The thing is, it feels real, like Harry actually wants this, wants him. Nick sighs a little when he sloppily nips at his bottom lip, but he can’t really tell if it comes out exasperated like he’d planned, or longing. Whatever it sounded like, it has Harry pushing his hips forward and circling them against his and—oh.  
Nick stifles a groan and ducks his head a bit, but Harry’s so close to him that he ends up sort of pressed against his neck. His skin is impossibly warm, and his pulse flutters restlessly underneath Nick’s cheek. He thinks, ‘he’ll regret this,’ he thinks, ‘he’s nineteen,’ he thinks, ‘you’re trashed and he’s trashed and he won’t even remember this.’ 

The sound of tires approaching on the street is what saves him from having to push him away again. He doesn’t think he could bear that look one more time. He does have to bear a small, helpless, wanting sort of noise that breaks out of Harry.  
“C’mon,” Nick says softly. “Let’s get you home then.” 

He honestly can’t tell if his shitty weekend has gotten better or worse. 

2\. 

“You want me, Nick Grimshaw,” Harry announces when he shows up on Nick’s doorstep with a six-pack of beer and some popcorn. “And I have physical proof.” Nick is sorely tempted to just shut the door right in his stupid, lovely face. He’d deserve it. Instead, he lets out a long-suffering sigh and opens the door wider so Harry can duck his way inside. He’s wearing the skinny jeans that are scuffed about and holey at the knees and one of the sleeves of his loose t-shirt is pushed up over his bicep. He makes his way down the hall toward the kitchen like he owns the place, and Nick has no choice but to shut the door and trail after him like a puppy or something. Someone so sloppily dressed half the time doesn’t have any right being so good-looking. 

Nick leans against the wall near the doorway and watches as Harry opens two of the beers he brought and offers one to him innocently, like he hadn’t just barged into his flat full of strange ideas. He takes the beer anyway, because he doesn’t know if he wants to have this conversation stone-cold sober—he pictures actually saying it out loud: “look Harry, I fancy you a lot, so if you could just knock it off with how attractive you are, that’d be great and everything, cheers.” He suppresses a shudder and takes a swig of the beer.  
“So, I think we should get drunk and fool around,” Harry says, blasé, as if he was talking about grabbing coffee or doing laundry or—something not quite so unexpected. Nick chokes.  
“Are you drunk already?” he asks, trying to decisively ignore what he just said. Harry frowns a little and kicks his heel against one of the counters. Nick wonders inanely if he’ll leave scuff marks there before realizing it really, really doesn’t matter, because a nineteen year old pop star who he fancies just propositioned him in his own damn kitchen.  
“No,” Harry says, dead serious and a bit petulant. It’s all Nick can do not to just knock the whole drink back in one go.  
“You are a font of bad ideas, has anyone ever told you that?” he snaps back with levity, but Harry stands there frowning at him until Nick reaches over to nudge his chin gently with his knuckles. “C’mon. We can watch crap telly and scream about the economy or something.”  
He honestly can’t believe he just rejected an offer of carefree snogging with a perfectly willing Harry Styles. He doesn’t know why he does the things he does—he just, doesn’t want Harry to regret anything. And he selfishly doesn’t want to lose this easy, loping grace they’ve developed around one another.  
“God, you’re old,” Harry teases, and there’s that smile.  
“You didn’t seem to think that a few nights ago,” he can’t help saying. 

Harry blinks at him for a moment or two before finding his ticklish spot right under his ribs and digging his fingers in mercilessly. Nick grapples for his wrists and holds them tight, trying to stifle the breathless laughter pouring out of him. Harry’s laughing too, and as he stumbles backwards, he pulls Nick with him until they land against the counter with a jolt.  
“Owww,” Harry breathes out, his lips forming an elongated sound, but then he’s smiling again, and he’s so close, and. Nick only has to dip forward a little to press his lips to Harry’s, it’s almost effortless. He hasn’t let go of his wrists, and he swipes his thumbs vaguely over his pulse points. He’s startled when Harry actually groans against his mouth.  
Then Harry’s pushing forward, flitting his tongue against Nick’s lips until he opens his mouth and lets him in. Nick gives back all he gets, and Harry’s hand is on his cheek within seconds. Nick bites a little blindly at his lip, though he’s not sure if he’s urging him onward or asking for him to stop, and Harry actually hisses.  
“Sorry,” he manages, but Harry is mouthing at his jaw with some sense of urgency, and all of a sudden he’s forgotten entirely what he’s sorry for. He gets his hand in Harry’s hair and—hair should not be allowed to be so soft.  
When he tugs a little at it, Harry goes a bit weak against him unexpectedly so they end up tumbling back against the opposite wall.  
“Fuck,” Harry whispers. “Sorry.” 

His hands come to rest cupped at Nick’s hips, and looking down, he runs his thumbs along the line of his hipbones through his thin t-shirt. A terrible, wonderful shudder runs down Nick’s spine; he has to bite his lip to stifle what would undoubtedly be an embarrassing noise. He just can’t seem to figure out what Harry wants here.  
He could know exactly how much Nick fancies him, and is trying to drag it out of him, or he’s oblivious and lonely. He doesn’t know which is worse, but he can’t seem to make himself push him away. It’s stupid and selfish, but the feel of Harry’s warm hands on his hips makes him feel heady and electric in a way he hasn’t felt in a while.  
He takes a deep breath to try and steady himself but nothing helps.  
“Really bad idea,” he says faintly, and curses himself immediately when Harry pulls back to level him with a look that is caught somewhere between hurt, amused, and skeptical. He looks like he might pull a muscle. Nick can’t help running his fingers across his lips though and at that, Harry starts to smile.  
“Dunno,” he replies. “I quite enjoyed that.”  
He shakes out his hair and pushes it up and back out of his face again. He’s just a teenage boy looking for kicks, Nick tells himself, emphatic. He’s sweet and young and he has no idea how devastating he can be.  
“C’mon,” he says, his racing heart starting to sink back down into his chest from where it had risen to someplace inside his throat. “I’ll make you a cuppa and we can watch a film or something.”  
Harry ducks his head, which isn’t really a response, except it is. Except it isn’t. Nick takes a deep breath. Then another. Keeps breathing as slowly and as steadily as he can. 

They end up just drinking tea instead of the beer Harry bought, which ends up sitting for a day or two in Nick’s fridge, and when Harry falls asleep on Nick’s shoulder that night while watching Trainspotting, Nick gives the top of his head a quick kiss because that’s all he trusts himself with. 

3\. 

Harry comes to the studio the next week and mucks about in the break room while Nick’s on air, spinning around in the wheeled chairs and charming the various employees that Nick sends to keep him well-behaved. They all come back and tell Nick he’s an absolute angel, and Nick wants to fire all of them, though he’s not really sure if he has the power to actually do that.  
He just gives them long-suffering sighs and sends them to get him a larger cup of coffee. 

He ends up needing the larger coffee for the long morning that he ends up having, and by the time he gets off work, he fully expects that Harry had taken off ages ago. So when he walks into the break room to find him sprawled out across the couch scrolling aimlessly on his phone, he actually starts back a bit. Harry looks up at him and smiles brightly.  
“Jesus, Styles,” he says, embarrassingly breathless. “Thought you’d have fucked off home by now.” He punctuates his words with a vague sort of wave with his hands. Harry sits up.  
“Why, are you tired of me?” Harry teases, smiling that half-mouthed little smirk of his, standing up and stretching while Nick goes to grab his bag from the armchair where he’d dumped it unceremoniously earlier that morning. 

Fearne’s show is just starting and there’s no one around in the room except them. Nick tries not to stare at the way Harry’s t-shirt pulls up, exposing the terrible expanse of his hip bones—hip bones you had the chance to touch, you twat, Nick tells himself.  
“Terribly,” Nick deadpans, and Harry rolls his eyes. “You disgust me.”  
“You adore me,” Harry replies easily and saunters into Nick’s space like he always does. He stands too close while Nick pulls on his jacket, rubbing at his eyes and clicking out a text on his phone. And the thing is, Nick is tired. He’s had a long day, and he likes Harry’s dumb beanie that’s pushing his hair out of his face, and he likes Harry’s dumb face, and he’s tired of skirting around the edges of whatever they have between them. 

“Hey,” he says, and is surprised when his voice comes out almost gentle. Harry blinks up at him a few times. “Hey,” he says back.  
“Remember that thing you said a while back,” Nick starts, waving his  
hand around a bit vaguely. Harry stares. “About getting drunk and, well.” He falters again and runs his fingers up into his hair as if searching for some semblance of vulnerability or even his usual blunt-force honesty. Harry seems to get it though, because he’s started smiling.  
“I knew you wanted me,” he says triumphantly, and kisses him hard. 

It’s hard to think about pop star and nineteen when Harry’s arms are wrapped around your neck, Nick thinks, but he’s grinning too, though he has no idea why. He should be embarrassed, scared, maybe angry—he should be something other than delirious with excitement, but he just can’t be bothered. He’s absolutely buzzing, and the way that Harry’s fingertips brush along his throat makes his skin tingle.  
Because Harry has absolutely no sense of balance, he staggers backwards a bit, clutching at Nick to stay upright, and they sway together like that. But even then Harry refuses to stop kissing him, and Nick actually feels dizzy with the actuality of this.  
Harry Styles is entirely sober and Harry Styles wants to kiss him.  
“We’re not drunk,” Harry points out, when he pulls back, breathless, and looks at Nick. His lips are kiss-bruised and slick, and Nick would feel bad, but his stomach does a terrible, wonderful lurch inside him—half from how beautiful Harry is and half from the disappointment of realizing he might not want to do this sober as much as Nick does.  
“Okay?” Nick says, open-ended, and he’s two seconds away from waspishly offering to give him a few drinks if that made him feel better about it when Harry’s mouth trembles into a smile, that bright, unreserved smile he always seems to give him that make his heart swell and constrict constantly.  
“Okay,” he says easily. He juts his chin out though, almost like a challenge, and Nick blinks at him for a second.  
“Oh Jesus,” he breathes, and gets two fistfuls of Harry’s soft t-shirt to tug him back close to him. With a small, punched-out laugh, Harry stumbles forward and their mouths collide so hard it almost hurts, except that it ends up being more wonderful than painful. He uncurls his fists from Harry’s shirt and apologetically smoothes the fabric down, his heart fluttering a bit when he feels Harry’s stomach clench beneath his fingers. He can’t help slipping his fingertips just underneath his t-shirt, just to see, and Harry stifles a little gasp against Nick’s jaw. He’s keening for it, and Nick feels fucking delirious.  
He runs the backs of his knuckles up his stomach muscles and over the bony expanse of his ribcage, feeling the way his skin ripples up in response, and he bites his lip. Harry’s hips surge forward, but Nick isn’t even sure he’s aware of his own body.  
“Steady on, love,” he whispers.  
Harry tentatively rubs his hips up against his, and it’s not nearly enough friction. Nick huffs out a surprisingly impatient noise, and grinds against him until he groans.  
“Steady on yourself,” Harry breathes back, but it’s a bit hurried, like he’s not able to catch his breath long enough to actually say words. Harry’s fingers stray dangerously close to the zip of Nick’s trousers, and he tenses up. The holy-shit sensation of this actually happening comes in crippling waves that do nothing to stop how fucking hard he is.  
He should be embarrassed. He isn’t.  
“Is this okay?” Harry asks, looking intently at him.  
Nick drags his nails down Harry’s back in response, then, when Harry refuses to just move—do something, anything, he bites out, “fucking hell, Harry, of course it is.” 

Harry just smiles, a faint, fond sort of smile that makes Nick’s chest hurt, and his eyes flutter downward so that his eyelashes splay out across his cheeks, stark against his fair skin. It’s unfair. Some things are really just unfair, Nick thinks, but he doesn’t think about it long, because Harry’s already tugging his zip down and working his hand inside his pants.  
He takes one quick breath in before Harry’s fingers have circled his dick and pulled once, twice. Then he can’t seem to breathe at all. It’s rough—too hot and dry, but Nick’s head tips back anyway, colliding with the wall a little too hard. Harry makes a small noise of concern and runs his other hand through Nick’s hair, settling the palm of his hand on the nape of Nick’s neck, running his fingers lightly through the hair there. He pulls his hand back out of Nick’s pants to spit on his palm, licking criminally at his fingers.  
“Fuck,” Nick says. “Fuck.”  
Harry’s eyes go a bit dazed and glassy at that, and Nick sort of wildly wants to understand why just muttering profanities at him can make him look like that. Harry licks his lips and turns his gaze downward, pulling Nick out of his pants then, wrapping his fingers lightly around the head of his cock and giving him one lazy stroke, up and down.  
It shouldn’t be that attractive, it’s just a rushed hand job in the break room at work for fuck’s sake, but Nick’s skin is tingly all over, and he tries to calm himself down with the harsh clarity of “he will never want to look at you again,” but that’s getting harder and harder to believe the more Nick watches Harry’s face and the way whole body is angled like he wants or needs to be closer to Nick. His hand speeds up and Nick has to take a slow breath in so he doesn’t come all over Harry’s hand way too soon. He tries to settle himself, but his heart is thundering in his ears, loud and way too fast.  
“Easy,” he says faintly. “I’m an old man, remember?”  
Harry huffs out this breathless little laugh, his face all open and incredulous and devastating, and then he’s surging forward to kiss Nick again, his thumb rubbing a small circle just below Nick’s ear. Nick hums in response because there’s not much else he can do. Then, when Harry moves down to mouth blindly at his neck, he maybe moans a little bit. Maybe a little too loudly.  
At that, Harry let out a low, painful-sounding whine. Nick feels his stomach clench, he’s already embarrassingly close to coming. Harry pulls back just enough to look Nick in the eye—his pupils, Nick notes, are blown so that the stunning green of his eyes has become a slim, tenuous circle around the black center—licks his lips and says, “Can I—can I suck you off?” Jesus Christ.  
Nick feels an orgasm slam through him and he comes with a strangled sort of groan that he muffles weakly into Harry’s neck as Harry crowds in closer. 

Nick has to take several slow breaths in, and he keeps his fingers curled in the fabric of Harry’s t-shirt—feels like he might be the only thing holding him up right now, and that’s a scary thought, what with Harry’s balance issues. He tries to steady himself as quickly as possible, realizing all of a sudden how much he wants to drop to his knees right now and swallow Harry down.  
First he needs to remember how to breathe properly though, and his lungs are staging a mutiny inside him or something. All of his breaths sound ragged and asthmatic. He’d be worried, but Harry’s still closer than skin, pressing these light kisses to the underside of his jaw, painfully tender, so Nick just breathes and holds on and holds on and—

There are footsteps outside in the hall, a loud laugh.  
He finally remembers where they actually are. Harry ducks away and comes back with a paper towel from the bathroom to wipe him off. Quicker than anything, but still so delicate, Harry zips and buttons Nick’s jeans. Nick opens his mouth to make some smart-ass comment about how he can still button his own trousers, thank you very much, but Harry’s fingertips linger on Nick’s hipbone where his shirt has ridden up, and Nick just gets distracted.  
“Perfect,” Nick mutters bitterly, his hands itching to reach out and jerk Harry off at least, return the favor, fast and dirty.  
Harry pulls back enough to give him this faint little smile and a quick kiss at the corner of his mouth.  
“Another time, I guess,” he whispers, and steps back. His lips are a whole shade darker, and his pupils are wide and Nick takes a whole second to feel the weight of the fact that he made him look like that. 

“Yeah,” Nick says back, like a promise. Harry’s whole face lights up. 

4\. 

They’re on the couch at Nick’s flat. Harry brought wine with him this time which they drink out of mugs. Harry had looked tired when he walked in a few hours earlier with this distant little look on his face. The tour must have taken it out of him, but Nick doesn’t ask about that. Sometimes it’s actually hard to remember that his best friend is also an international pop star with screaming, jealous fans. He can almost forget about all that when it’s just the two of them sitting together in his flat, drinking wine out of mugs. 

Harry slings his legs over Nick’s when they’ve settled on the couch, and Nick throws a blanket over both of them because it’s surprisingly chilly, despite the fact that it’s only September.  
“Did you watch the film?” Harry asks him, low and slow, hands cupped around the mug with the little hash tag Team Grimmy on it—his favorite one of Nick’s. Nick scoffs a little, mock-affronted.  
“Obviously,” he grins. “About eight times since it premiered. What kind of a fan would I be if I hadn’t.”  
He doesn’t say how odd it was to watch it all play out on the screen. He doesn’t say how tight his chest had gotten while watching the part where Harry’s just waking up—his roughened morning voice and his sleep-wrecked hair. Harry ducks his head and laughs a little.  
“You’d be a proper rubbish fan if you didn’t see it at least another four times,” he says.  
“That’s manipulative, Styles,” Nick says. “Eight is plenty.”  
Harry just shakes his head and sips his wine. After another moment of silence, Harry nudges his shoulder against Nick’s until he looks at him. When he does finally look over, pretending to be exasperated, he finds Harry a lot closer than he expected, and as he looks, he watches the slow flutter of Harry’s eyes turning downward, landing on Nick’s lips. 

The thing is that Nick doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants, doesn’t think he’s even allowed to ask, but Harry seems to know exactly what he’s doing. Nick wants to believe that Harry knows exactly what he’s doing, because he sure as hell doesn’t.  
Harry ducks his head and presses his lips to the underside of Nick’s jaw, very slowly. He pulls back and just looks at Nick, as if to see what he’s going to do, what his reaction will be. Nick crooks a smile at him because he doesn’t know what else to do, and sometimes when he looks at him, he can’t really help smiling. He lifts one hand to Harry’s cheek, feels it dimple underneath his palm. He swipes his thumb along the indent, his heart swelling inside his chest. Then Harry pushes in again to trail rambling kisses across his jaw and down his neck, slow like his voice is slow. Nick wonders, vaguely, if he can feel his pulse rushing beneath his skin. 

Harry mumbles something against Nick’s neck, and Nick tries not to think of the affection that flutters somewhere in his ribcage. Mumbly, adorable bastard. Nick slides his fingers into his hair, pulling at the curls lightly until Harry looks up at him.  
“Want you,” Harry murmurs. “I want you,” he says again, like he didn’t think Nick could hear him, but he could. Nick tries to keep from panicking, keeps his hands steady as he slides them up and down Harry’s thighs.  
“Do you want me?” Harry asks, like it’s a secret, his eyes fixed on Nick in a way that makes him simultaneously calmed and terrified.  
“Reminds me of a note passed to me in primary school,” Nick teases.

Harry’s face breaks into a dawn-like smile. He slides onto Nick’s lap effortlessly, all long legs and broad shoulders. He can see his tattoos creeping up and disappearing underneath the sleeve of his black t-shirt.  
Nick leans forward to kiss the very tip of one of the swallows on his chest and Harry shivers, still smiling.  
“Check yes or no,” Harry says.  
“Yes,” Nick whispers, before he can over think it. It’s the smallest thing, almost imperceptible, but Harry shivers again. And Nick really, really can’t handle him. 

He clutches a bit desperately at Harry’s t-shirt, gathering him in close to murmur, “Can I suck you off?” right into the skin below his ear. It’s meant to be a bit teasing—from the time at the radio station—but it just comes out breathless. This time it’s Harry clutching at his shoulders, like he’ll tip right off of him if he doesn’t hold on and hold on tight. Maybe he would.  
“Is that a yes?” Nick says, laughing a little despite himself.  
“Yes,” he replies, breathless and a bit dazed looking, like he can’t believe this is actually happening. Nick feels a little bit the same. 

He wants to think about the way Harry said “I want you” for the rest of his life. He wants—he just wants. It makes him feel a bit sick and giddy all at once. Maybe that’s the wine. Maybe it’s just Harry. 

5\. 

It’s raining when they drive home from the fashion show in Nick’s car. They’re both a bit tired and wrecked from all the paps and the lights and Nick’s thinking about how bloody awful it’s going to be to wake up alone tomorrow after spending two days straight with Harry. 

Nick offers to drop Harry by his flat before heading home—Harry is all set to go off to Australia the next day. He says yes. The minute Harry gets in his car, he puts the 1975 on, because of course he does. Neither of them talk for a bit; there’s too much tension in the space between them.  
Just don’t let tomorrow come, Nick thinks to himself. Let’s just skip a week, a month. Don’t let me think of him every day for that long. 

Harry coughs a little and leans his head up against the window.  
Nick can’t hear the song playing, so he turns it up. The I’ve been thinking lots about your mouth line comes out jarringly loud in the quiet and Nick goes to turn the radio back down, glancing quickly at Harry to see if he reacts at all. He just blinks back at him steadily.  
“I like it,” Harry says finally, looking away, back out the window, and picking at the frayed edges of string at the knee of his jeans.  
“Sorry?” Nick says, his knuckles going white on the steering wheel.  
“That line,” he replies, and brushes his hair out of his face. “’S nice.”  
Nick looks at the road, steadies himself in the rushing concrete. 

It’s still raining when he pulls up outside of Harry’s flat. Harry stays very still in his seat, looking up at all the dark windows. He turns to Nick and Nick keeps his hand clutched around the gear shift so he won’t reach out and touch him or something, ruin everything. That’s okay, because Harry does it first, his hand coming to rest on the back of Nick’s neck and tugging him forward until their lips meet. Nick feels the kiss in slow motion at first, then all at once, fast and overwhelming, his blood thundering through him. 

“Harry,” he murmurs, pushing back a bit, trying to ignore the small needy noise that Harry lets out. “Anyone can see.”  
“I don’t care,” Harry says a little fiercely, looking at him with steady eyes.  
“You don’t care?” Nick repeats faintly.  
Harry ducks his head down so all Nick can see is the tangled brown curls at the top of his head. Tomorrow, he thinks, and then the overwhelming sensation of “no” jolts through him.  
His fingertips lift Harry’s chin and he leans in to kiss him again. You’re making it worse for yourself, mate, Nick tells himself, but it’s not enough to stop him. Stupidly, selfishly, he wants this every day, always.  
Harry tries to push forward, almost as if to climb on top of Nick’s lap—which he would not have any objection to—but gets caught on the center console and this breathless little laugh is startled out of him.  
“So Australia,” Nick says, keeping one steadying hand against Harry’s chest. He can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips and it makes him feel strangely light-headed. He takes two slow breaths in and out.  
“Are you going to miss me?” Harry asks, cheeky.  
“Don’t get cocky, pop star,” Nick says, but he still doesn’t answer the question because the “yes” would feel too heavy in the space between them.  
Harry’s brow creases then, his face oddly drawn.  
“Well, I’m going to miss you,” he says. Then he opens the door and steps out into the rain. He’s wearing those stupid, stupid trainers they bought together, and he’s not even wearing a coat.  
Nick thinks he might actually be in love. Harry gives him one last slow-burn of a smile before he turns away, walking into the building and out of sight. 

6\. 

Nick doesn’t listen to the 1975 for almost all of October. Every stupid fucking line reminds him of stupid Harry fucking Styles for some reason and he really hates that this is his life.  
Each time he plays Chocolate on the radio he fidgets with the lid of his coffee cup, chats with Fincham, does anything but think about Harry Styles and “I’m going to miss you.” Because he’s not a masochist. He isn’t.  
He gets a bit of a cold. He goes to work. He works a few events. His quiz show airs. He breaks on a Tuesday, listens to the whole album in one go while sleep deprived and a little drunk. He tries not to count the lyrics that hit way too close to home. 

(It’s just you and I tonight, why don’t you figure my heart out.) 

At the end of month, he texts to ask about someone’s birthday.  
Lightening fast, Harry texts back I’m on stage right now call you later x and the fact that he texted him anyway, even when he was on a stage doing his job sends Nick into this weird affection-induced rage. He types an entire text-rant to Collette about pop stars before deleting it all, staring at the ceiling for a solid minute-and-a-half, and going to Starbucks. 

He does end up calling Nick later, his voice a bit wrecked from the show, rough around the edges, even more than usual. It’s really late for him, and he rambles for a while how brilliant Australia is and these new candles he bought in some ramshackle shop somewhere, and then Nick rambles back about Ian’s birthday and Sweat the Small Stuff and the Twitter fight between him and Louis—“I’m really, really sorry about that,” Harry says, heart-breakingly earnest. “Gave him a strong talking to.” Nick just laughs trying to imagine Harry giving a strong talking to anyone.  
After a while though, Harry’s voice starts to soften a bit, like it’s melting away, and Nick knows he’s falling asleep.  
“I’ll let you go,” he says gently, and hears Harry sort of hum in response.  
“Miss you,” he mumbles, and he feels near and close and warm, even though he’s all the way in Australia. 

coming to london in two days ! see you soon maaaate

one more daaaay answer your phone nick grimshaw

drinks or movie or something when I get back IIIIIII miss you 

watching grease on the plane YOU ARE THE ONE I WANT 

home. you should answer your phone x

When Nick lets himself into Harry’s flat, Haim is playing in Harry’s flat on a stereo system that probably cost a fortune. It’s a biting cold afternoon in November, and Nick feels like every part of him has been frozen so the suddenly warm air of the living room is jarring, though welcome.  
“Harry?” he calls, weirdly unsure of himself before Harry’s head pops around the corner, all tangled curls and a slow-bright smile. He’s wearing a cardigan over his thin t-shirt, skinny jeans, and socks.  
He looks at home. He looks like home. 

“Nick!” he cries, and before Nick even realizes, he’s got a Harry Styles wrapped around him like a blanket. For once he doesn’t think twice, he just puts his arms around Harry’s narrow frame and squeezes until their chests are flush.  
“You’re freezing,” Harry says, pulling back a little to frown at him.  
“It’s a bit—” Nick starts, but before he can even finish Harry kisses him. Even his lips are warm, Nick thinks faintly, and he feels the burn of it all the way through his body, settling somewhere low in his stomach.  
“So,” Harry says, still close enough that when he talks his lips brush back against Nick’s. “I think…I mean…I know that I like you. Just a little bit.”  
Nick stares at him.  
“Actually a lot,” Harry says.  
He has no way of averting this or accepting it either, he’s just frozen, but Harry’s like the thaw, spreading through him, burning like sunlight in his veins. 

“I thought it was just a phase,” Nick says finally, choked, and Harry blinks. “I mean, you’re kind of young. You have a world of options, and maybe you just wanted someone to mess around with, and.”  
Nick feels like he can’t stop talking now, like if he stops now he might die of embarrassment.  
Harry frowns, looking down but not moving any further away than an arm’s length from Nick, so that’s a good sign.  
“You thought you were an experiment,” Harry clarifies, half to himself.  
“A bit, yeah,” Nick says, flinching at his bluntness.  
Harry’s frown deepens, his lips downturned and his brow creased.  
“No,” he tells him thoughtfully. “Even at the beginning, I knew what I wanted. When I’m with you—when I’m near you, I’m happier. You just make me happy. I don’t know.” He shrugs one shoulder, still looking down.  
Nick feels like his brain is actually exploding, synapses like fireworks going off.  
“Fuck,” he says, breathing out a sharp gust of air. He feels like he’d been holding his breath for a while, possibly forever. Breathing feels weird. Harry looks up at the sound, half-apprehensive and half-amused. The corner of his mouth twitches like he wants to smile. 

“Do you like me too?” Harry asks, pushing forward a bit hopefully.  
“Check yes or no,” Nick teases, and the light comes back in Harry’s eyes full force, his smile spreading.  
Nick moves one hand to the back of Harry’s neck, his fingers curling lazily in the hair at the nape of his neck. Harry’s eyes flutter shut, and when he opens them again, he just stares at Nick like he’s something magical, something wild and important and irreplaceable.  
“C’mere, popstar,” he says and pulls Harry back close to him.  
Nick feels him tuck his face into his neck, breathing warm air against his skin. One of Harry’s hands slides underneath Nick’s jacket and his fingertips find the line of his spine.  
“Yes,” Nick whispers into Harry’s hair, and feels Harry’s fist curl into the fabric of his shirt. Harry lets out a long breath like he’d been holding it in—waiting. Nick presses one smiling kiss to his forehead, feeling entirely warm and terribly, terribly happy.


End file.
